The conversations I've been writing up on this blog are the result of a procedural process used to write-through J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, Ernest Hemingway's The Nick Adams Stories and Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. The conversations map out an alternative journey, narrative and dialogue that occurs when the characters, Holden, Nick and Tom, meet on the page.

The conversations currently exist in the above format - a journal. There are 10 copies which have been individually handmade, therefore although the text remains the same, each copy varies due to the markings and mistakes made by the materials used.

11.10.08

It is still pretty early. I'm not sure what time it was, butthe Kansas City train stops at a sidingand two boys fly on and on towards the village.This night club: The Lavender Roomis in the ruts - Every stump stares up in its path.I think of maybe hanging up on my parentscos they lurch out of sightas aroused watch-dogs give wings to their feet.As a matter of fact, I'm the onlyone touching the groundI can't stand it much longer - She still has nice, pretty little ears (spectators of the ball agree)and at last, breast to breastyou'd like her. I mean if youmanage to get any dope your pulses will s l o w d o w n.

10.10.08

The first thing I did when I got off at Penn Stationwas to open the door of Henry's lunchroom.At half past nine that nightI woke her up, but the trouble was I didn't know what the trouble wasIt was nearly daylight and we hear the clock strike ten.Sally Hayes is on her Christmas vacationbut she spends it talking to Georgeso I stare up into the dark. Everything is dismally stillbesides, I was never crazy about talking to old Mrs Hayes - What the hell do you put it on the card for?!Old beams begin to crack mysteriouslyI get my bags and walk over to that tunnelIt's five o' clocktime for the tiresome chirping of cricketsthen I say, 'Hey, do you mind turning aroundI have to eat'.Our days are numbered.

9.10.08

It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, soNick stood up. He was alright.Tom dogged hither and thitherHe smacked my lip right on my teeth, and it was pretty soreHe felt of his knee; his pants torn -Juvenile superstition meant that he shovedsnow in my hand and washed my face with itthen washed his hand carefully in cold waterhardly distinguishable.I usually read about these dumb stories -I will know them again. Apparently it's fine way to actwith not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heatI just didn't feel like it. I just sort of sat'Come here, kid, I got something for you' then Wham!This seemed to render the pervading silenceand I was sittingand he - the son of a crutting brakemansat long with his elbows on his knees.

8.10.08

A tiny bit of light came through the shower curtainsand he saw me come in the doorTom tried to fasten his mind on his book.He had alot of white stuff on his faceand held a glass in his hand.The air was utterly dead.Where's the light? I couldn't find the light.He drew that beer and cut it offaway offblood and all.What's yours?Lazy wing; no other living thingyou're bleeding, for chrissake!A bowl of pickled pig's feetto pass the dreary time.I said 'listen, I gotta get up and go -'Tom held the wooden scissors in his hand.He released the tick and pulled me.